


Eight Wine Glasses

by mrs_d



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (so many cameos), (what's a bar AU without a bar fight or two?), Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bartender Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Developing Relationship, Divorced Sam Wilson, Flirting, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Marvel Cameos, Matchmaker James "Bucky" Barnes, Matchmaker Natasha Romanov, Meet-Cute, Natasha Romanov & Sam Wilson Friendship, Past Riley/Sam Wilson, Some minor violence, Some offensive language & homophobic attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-22 05:37:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6067180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And let me ask you something, Steve,” Sam exclaimed, pointing at him suddenly. “What in the hell is a single guy going to do with eight wine glasses?”</p><p>“Wine and cheese parties?” Steve guessed. “Do his friends fondue?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saturday Night

**Author's Note:**

> Finished at last! Thanks to everyone who cheered me on with comments, kudos, and encouragement. <3

“This sucks,” the customer declared, parking himself on a stool directly in front of Steve, who was mixing up a Long Island iced tea for the woman at the end of the bar.

She kept glancing his way, and Steve was beyond not interested, so he kept his eyes locked on his new patron instead. It helped that the guy was nice to look at: short dark hair, soft brown eyes, high cheekbones, and enough beard to notice, but not so much that it took over his face — Steve hated that.

“What sucks?” Steve asked. 

 “My life,” the man replied. “Hey, can I have one of those?”

“Sure, one sec,” Steve answered.

He picked up the glass and carried it down the bar, careful not to smile at the woman in anything other than a professional manner. A lifetime of never being noticed by girls had trained him in pretending he was invisible, even if his senior year growth spurt and college football had changed his appearance somewhat.

His new favorite customer didn’t seem to think he was invisible, though; Steve caught him raising his eyes guiltily when he turned back around. Stifling a smile — and a little blush — Steve ducked down to fill a clean glass with ice and started adding the components of a Long Island iced tea: tequila, triple sec, vodka, rum, and gin.

“Lotta booze going into that,” the man said idly. “Is it good?”

“You’ve never had one?” Steve asked, surprised.

“I guess you could say I’m more of a wine drinker,” the customer answered, but there was something off about his tone, the way his mouth twisted wryly.

“Oh,” said Steve, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. He topped the glass off with cola, and as he reached for a lemon wedge, he had an idea. He grabbed a whole lemon instead and picked up a little paring knife that was under the bar.

“Man, that’s fancy,” the customer commented.

Steve blushed again, but he kept peeling the lemon in one long, curling strip, careful to get just enough pith that it would keep its corkscrew shape around the straw. Nick would probably give him hell for using up a new lemon when a wedge from the bucket would do, but Nick was off tonight, and Steve liked the way this customer was watching his hands.

“Here you go,” he announced when he was finished, and he presented the drink with a small flourish.

“Wow, thanks,” the customer said. He extended a hand. “Sam Wilson, by the way,”

“Steve Rogers. I’d shake, but I have sticky fingers.”

Sam raised his eyebrows.

“Uh,” Steve went on clumsily. “That... didn’t come out right. I meant the lemon. The lemon made me... sticky.”

“Smooth,” Sam teased.

Steve thought he was going to die from embarrassment, but then Sam took a sip of his drink and promptly choked.

“Smooth,” Steve echoed with a grin, happy that he could give as good as he got.

Right then, someone called for him, so he headed over to take money and open beer bottles, aware of Sam’s eyes on him the whole time. When he returned, Sam’s glass was still full.

“This is disgusting,” Sam said, pushing it away. “Why do people drink these?”

Steve shrugged. “Don’t look at me, I don’t drink much.”

“What kind of bartender doesn’t drink?” Sam asked incredulously.

“Well, I couldn’t when I younger — too many health conditions. Guess I never developed a taste for it,” Steve replied as he took the drink, complete with its perfect lemon spiral, and dumped it down the drain. “Want a glass of wine instead, Sam? We’ve got a nice Merlot, or so they tell me.”

“Hell no, I hate wine,” Sam replied. “Give me a gin and tonic.”

“Okay,” said Steve, surprised again. “With lime?”

“Yeah — you can even make it all twisty if you want,” Sam added with a smirk.

“I’ll need a good tip for that,” Steve said, smirking right back.

“No problem.” Sam watched him work again, and when Steve handed him the drink he raised it. “Here’s a tip for you, Steve Rogers: never get married.”

With that, Sam drained the glass and set it down with an ice-clattering thump. “Another one, if you please?”

Steve blinked at him for a second, then nodded and made him another. He hovered, waiting to see if Sam would keep talking, but he was staring moodily into his glass, and the woman at the end of the bar needed a refill, so, with an apologetic smile, Steve got back to work.

Sam sipped his second drink, his eyes alternating between following Steve and scanning the crowd, which was getting bigger by the minute. Saturday night was suddenly in full swing at The Helicarrier, and it was almost two hours before Steve got a chance to talk to Sam again, even though he’d ordered three more drinks in that time, and he was starting to look morose.

“You good, Sam?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Sam replied, his words a little slurred. “Been better, but good. One more before I go?”

Steve felt a little crash of disappointment that Sam would be going so soon, but he nodded and took the empty glass away.

“One year ago today, he left me,” Sam said suddenly. “A whole year with no contact, and Riley calls me up today and asks me if I still have his damn wine glasses.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. And I do— did. Course I still had them. Did he really think I’d take them to the Sally Ann or something?” Sam asked, not taking his eyes off Steve’s hands as he mixed the drink. “God, you have the most beautiful hands,” he added suddenly. “Anybody ever tell you that?”

“Actually, yes. An art professor in college,” Steve answered. “She said I’d ruin them playing ball, but I guess I didn’t.”

“No, you sure didn’t,” Sam drawled.

Steve felt his cheeks heat, but he took a whole lime out of the bucket and started manipulating the rind with his favorite paring knife, cutting it into small ovals.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked.

“Nothing. So I take it your ex wanted the glasses back?” Steve prompted. He’d worked at a bar long enough now that he could smell a drunken rant coming, and he knew Sam would feel a lot better if he got it all off his chest at once.

Sam groaned. “Yeah. And I know his parents gave them to us, but they gave them to _us_ , you know? They were a wedding present, he should have let me keep half of them. But no, he says. Tells me he needs them all. God forbid I ever want to have a glass of wine.”

Steve smiled a little, deciding not to point out that Sam had claimed earlier to hate wine. He arranged the pieces of lime peel into groups of four and put the knife away.

“And let me ask you something, Steve,” Sam exclaimed, pointing at him suddenly. “What in the hell is a single guy going to do with eight wine glasses?”

“Wine and cheese parties?” Steve guessed. “Do his friends fondue?”

Sam scoffed. “Probably.”

Steve made a sympathetic noise and grabbed a couple toothpicks from the bar behind him. He started piercing the pieces of rind, lining them up just how he wanted them, four to a toothpick, their middles overlapping slightly.

“You’re single, right?” Sam asked suddenly, breaking Steve’s concentration.

“Uh,” Steve replied, but Sam overrode him.

“That’s what I thought. How many wine glasses do you have?”

“Four,” Steve answered truthfully.

Sam was shaking his head. “You don’t even drink, and you have four wine glasses. Why do I get none?”

“It’s not fair,” Steve said.

“Damn straight,” Sam agreed fervently.

“Well,” Steve amended with a little smile. “Not exactly.”

He slid the drink in front of Sam, then dropped the flowers he’d made into the glass, watching the tonic water fizz around their petals for a long moment. When he looked up, Sam’s eyes were on his, and they were warm with regret.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been acting like an ass.”

Steve shook his head. “You had a rough day is all.”

Sam nodded and sipped at the straw. Steve couldn’t seem to stop looking at his lips.

“You know, it’s been a year. A whole year, and I’ve never even looked at anybody else,” Sam went on in a low voice that Steve doubted anyone else could hear. 

“I can understand that,” said Steve, thinking of Peggy, who’d left him three years ago for a job in England, and they’d decided they couldn’t make it work long-distance.

“But maybe the time’s come,” Sam added. He picked one of the flowers out of his glass and twirled it between his fingers, sending a few flecks of water in all directions. “Can we try again sometime?”

Steve couldn’t help the smile that was slowly overtaking his face. “I’m here every Saturday.”

“Every Saturday, huh?”

“Mm hmm,” Steve replied. “Tuesdays and Thursdays, too.”

“That’s kind of complicated,” Sam said, and his flirtatious tone was unmistakeable now. “Maybe I should get your number just in case I forget.”

Steve glanced over to the end of the bar, where the Long Island iced tea lady was watching them. When he pulled his pen out of his apron and took Sam’s hand, she gave him a respectful, if disappointed, nod and turned away.

“There,” Steve announced when he’d finished scrawling his digits on the inside of Sam’s forearm. He signed his initials on Sam’s skin the way he signed a canvas. “Just in case.”

Sam was grinning, showing off the gap in his teeth that Steve found so endearing. Sam dropped the flower back into the glass and raised it to his lips, finishing the drink in one long pull. Then he stood, only wobbling a little, and paid his tab.

“See you around, Steve Rogers,” he said. “I’ll call you the next time I need decorative compost.”

“Oh, that’s how it is?” Steve called after him with a grin.

“Oh, that’s how it is,” Sam repeated, and then he melted into the crowd.


	2. Sunday Morning

Sam woke up with a foul taste on his tongue and cotton in his throat. He rolled over, and the room spun a little.

“Goddamn,” he groaned.

He sat up with an effort and reached for the glass of water on his nightstand. He didn’t remember filling it, but he sent a little prayer of thanks to his past self for thinking of it. When half the water was gone, he felt stable enough to get up and head to the bathroom.

Washing his hands, he saw Steve’s writing on his forearm and smiled at the memory of the tall, built blonde who’d grabbed his hand and scrawled his phone number like he was a celebrity signing autographs. Sam had probably made a bit of an ass of himself last night, but he could make it up. With dinner, he decided, heading to the kitchen for some orange juice and maybe, in a little while, some breakfast.

He stopped dead with his hand on the fridge door, though. Stuck just beside the handle, with one of his flags of the world magnets, was a note:

CALL ME. YOU NEED TO TELL ME MORE ABOUT STEVE.

There was nothing else, and Sam felt a cold stab of panic. Who had he talked to between the bar and home? He tried to retrace the events of last night. He’d left the bar, bummed a cigarette off one of the guys out front — which explained the cotton in his throat — and then what? He remembered a car ride; he must have called a cab or a friend—

“Oh no,” he breathed, and he started looking around for his phone. “Please don’t be Riley. Please don’t be Riley,” he chanted as he searched.

When he finally found it, he was relieved to see that Riley wasn’t in his call log. In fact, there were no calls listed for the last twenty-four hours. Not even to a cab company. Puzzled, Sam glanced back at the fridge, at the note held in place by the Russian flag.

Of course. He rolled his eyes and dialled Natasha’s number.

“Hey there, lover boy,” she greeted him breezily. “I see you got my message.”

“Yeah, I got it all right. You really like messing with people’s heads, don’t you?”

“Everybody needs a hobby,” she declared. “So, what do you remember?”

Sam sighed. “Let’s see: drinking, bitching about Riley and his damn wine glasses, flirting with a bartender who gave me his number, smoking for the first time in five years, and... waking up.”

Sam could practically hear Natasha grinning. “So you don’t remember anything else? You don’t remember calling me, then saying sorry because I wasn’t the tall, hot blonde you were trying to reach?”

“Oh no,” Sam said again.

“You don’t remember asking me for a ride home, since you had me on the line anyway?”

Sam winced. “How much do I owe you for gas?”

“Oh, gas money is not my concern, Sam,” Natasha said. “My concern is this tall, hot blonde.”

Something clicked into place in Sam’s brain, and his eyes went wide. “Please tell me I didn’t fuck the bartender. Because surely I’d remember—”

“You didn’t fuck the bartender.”

Sam breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“I have to give you an E for effort, though,” Natasha went on. “When I asked if you remembered where you lived, you said,  _hopefully in Steve’s pants_.”

“Oh, God.”

“Yeah,” Natasha commiserated. “Got it bad, huh?”

Sam laughed. “Apparently. He seems like a good guy, I think there’s potential. But I really don’t want to screw this up.”

“So you kept telling me last night,” said Natasha. “I don’t want you to screw it up either. He is a good guy, and there’s definitely potential. I think you two would be great together.”

“How would you know?” Sam asked.

“Oh, you probably don’t remember this part,” Natasha replied carelessly. “Steve Rogers is an old friend of mine, so if you fuck him, and you hurt him, you have me to answer to. Okay?” she added, her tone just cheerful enough to be terrifying.

“Got it,” Sam affirmed. “Don’t hurt Steve.”

“It’s good general advice,” Natasha agreed. “I mean, have you _seen_ his arms? Those are good arms to have.”

Sam had a flash of memory. “How many times did I say that to you last night?”

“Too many to count.”

They chatted a minute longer, until Sam was starting to feel genuinely hungry. With promises of flowers and homemade cookies to pay her back for taking care of him, Sam disconnected.

He put his iPod in the dock and turned on some music. He hummed and danced along to Alabama Shakes while he brewed coffee and made himself bacon and eggs. In the middle of “I Ain’t the Same,” he got a plate down from the cupboard and saw the place where their — Riley’s — wine glasses used to be.

His voice faltered. Then he rearranged his dishes to fill the empty space and sat down to eat his breakfast.


	3. Thursday Evening: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence and offensive (homophobic) language. See endnotes for details.

There could be no doubt: Sam was a nervous wreck, and Natasha wasn’t helping. Sam had had her on speaker for nearly an hour; she’d already listened to his first-kind-of-real-date-since-the-divorce anxieties, and now she was advising him on his fashion sense. Supposedly.

“What about yellow?” Sam called in the direction of his phone, which was resting on the dresser. He pulled his head out of the closet, held the collared shirt in front of his chest, and considered his reflection in the full-length mirror.

“No,” Natasha said firmly, her voice echoing in the large room. “No yellow — what are you, a canary?”

“Pale yellow,” Sam protested. “Not, like, bright yellow.”

“No means no,” she reiterated. “I’m telling you, go for the dark purple V-neck.”

“And I’m telling _you_ , I think it’s too tight.”

“Nope, just tight enough,” Natasha replied. “Come on, Sam, show off the girls a little.”

“Ugh,” Sam complained. “Remind me why we’re friends again?”

There was a pause. “You saved my life,” Natasha said at last, soft and serious. 

He didn’t know how to reply — it’d been three years, and they didn’t talk about it much — so he just cleared his throat and nodded, even though she couldn’t see it.

“So,” she carried on, teasing again but still warm, “I think I have the right to give you fashion advice, and my advice is to ditch the yellow, go for the purple. I may not know Steve’s tastes that well anymore, but I do know that they don’t run towards yellow. Nobody’s do.”

“Riley—” Sam started, and then he bit his tongue.

“No offence, sweetie, but Riley had terrible taste. In clothes,” Natasha added hastily. “Not in men.”

“Nice save,” Sam muttered.

He dug through his closet again, found the purple shirt in question and pulled it on, frowning slightly. It really was tight; Sam had spent more time at the gym since he and Riley split, and he could see the sweater straining a little at the shoulders and, yes, at the... girls.

“I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “Are you sure about the purple?”

Natasha’s sigh crackled through the phone speaker. “Yes. Now pair it with your white blazer.”

Sam frowned again, but he did as she asked and pouted at the mirror.

“Are you making a face?” Natasha demanded.

“Girl, that is uncanny,” Sam exclaimed. He actually glanced out the window to see if she was standing on his porch, but of course she wasn’t. “And I am not wearing this. I look like one of those drunken assholes that Jane and I have to pick up out of their vomit at four in the morning, when their friends finally decide to call 911.”

“Little bitter there, Sam?” Natasha asked wryly.

“Just a touch,” Sam agreed. He shrugged out of the white blazer and pulled on his grey one instead. “I’m going with the grey. Matches the slacks.”

“Fine, be boring,” Natasha conceded with another heavy sigh.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Shoes?”

“Nope. Barefoot,” Natasha deadpanned.

“Very funny. I was just thinking about how long it’s been since I stepped on a broken needle.”

“Broken needles are in, I hear,” Natasha agreed. “Look, I should get going. I’m working a midnight tonight for Kate, and I’ve got to start getting ready.”

“Okay. Be careful,” Sam said firmly. He’d worked enough midnights himself to know the kind of weirdoes that came out of the woodwork sometimes.

“Yeah, yeah,” Natasha answered, somehow sounding exactly like Sam’s younger sister, even though the two women had never met.

“I wish you had a better job,” he added after a moment, knowing full well it was fruitless.

“I know,” Natasha said gently. “But I had a better job. And it nearly killed me. The hotel is what I need right now: low stress, low pressure. Most nights I just sit behind the front desk and do nothing, and that’s perfectly fine by me.”

Sam suddenly realized that they’d spent their entire conversation talking about him and his problems. “You’re doing okay, though?” he asked, because he couldn’t ask, _Have you been eating all right?_

“Yes, dear,” Natasha answered with fond exasperation. “You worry too much.”

“Probably,” Sam agreed.

“But thanks,” she went on. “I’m good. Plus, I might get to see Clint tonight.”

“Clint?” Sam repeated. “Oh, the security guard? I thought you said he was a doofus.”

“I did not say that. That is not something I say, Sam.”

“Sure,” Sam said easily. “Except in this case, you not only said he was a doofus, you said he was an adorable doofus, like a golden retriever puppy.”

Natasha paused thoughtfully. “Okay, that does sound like me.”

Sam chuckled as he dug his black dress shoes out from under the bed and wiped the dust off with his hands.

“Anyway,” Natasha continued. “He brought me pizza the other night. Good pizza, except for the pineapple. I picked that off.”

“Nice,” said Sam, both in response to the lack of pineapple and to the news of Natasha’s positive associations with food. She’d come a long way.

“Okay, love, I’m going to go. Have a good date! And text me if Steve gets handsy or something. I’ll go ninja ballerina on his ass.”

Sam laughed. “Too bad you couldn’t get somebody to pay you for that, huh?”

“That’s the dream, Samuel, that’s the dream.”

They said their goodbyes, and Sam disconnected. He sat on the bed to lace up his shoes, then stood and gave himself a once-over in the full-length mirror.

“Okay,” he told his reflection, as he gulped down his nerves. “Let’s do this.”

* * *

He and Steve had arranged to meet at ten, when Steve’s shift ended, and Sam didn’t plan on arriving early, but it happened anyway. He scanned the staff behind the bar, but when he didn’t see the hot blonde he was looking for, Sam had a little flash of panic and considered going straight back home. A moment later, however, Steve came through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen, and Sam smiled in relief.

Steve didn’t see him; he was carrying a large amplifier and laughing over his shoulder at the dark-haired man behind him who was carrying speaker stands and a couple of microphones. Sam took one glance at the man — long hair, button-down top, tattoos peeking out at the wrists and neck — and dismissed him as a musician before he turned his attention back to the bartender he’d come to see. The muscles in Steve’s chest and arms were showing in stark relief under his black tee, and Sam was riveted. To think he’d been worried that his own shirt was too tight. He owed Natasha ten bucks, and probably a picture; she’d never believe the set of girls on Steve.

Sam dawdled just inside the door of the bar and watched Steve and the musician set up the speakers, wondering why there weren’t more band members or a roadie to do this work. Not that he minded when Steve had to bend down to run some cord under a table. That kind of view just didn’t come around too often. Sam caught one of the waitresses checking him out, too, and he suppressed a grin.

After a few minutes, though, Sam was starting to get a little impatient. This wasn’t Steve’s job; what was he doing? Only when the waitress who’d been eyeing Steve earlier took a stack of binders from the dark-haired man and started setting them down on the tables did Sam realize why there were no other band members to lug equipment around: Thursday night was karaoke night.

Steve and the dark-haired man — the DJ, Sam supposed — finished their work, but Steve made no motion to leave. They seemed to be engaged in an intense conversation; Steve was speaking with his head bowed, moving his elegant hands in aborted gestures. At last he shrugged, and the DJ stared for a second before he barked out a sudden laugh. He stepped close and slung an arm around Steve’s shoulder, hauling him in. Steve wasn’t a little guy, but he went along with the movement easily, tucking himself against the DJ’s side like he was made to fit there and wrapping an arm around the other man’s shoulders as well.

Sam felt a sharp pang in his chest and turned away, heading across the bar to the men’s room. Once there, he stared at himself in the mirror, thinking about what he’d just seen.

He’d taken his phone out of his pocket, thinking he’d text Natasha for advice, when three men staggered into the room, all but shouting at each other about the girls they were going to try to pick up later. Sam suppressed the urge to roll his eyes when one of them noted that there were only three urinals, so _no peeking_.

He stared down at his phone, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard. He had no idea what to say to Natasha that wouldn’t make him sound jealous or possessive; after all, Steve wasn’t really his to—

“Hey,” said one of the men, stumbling over to the sink.

Sam glanced up and stepped to the side to give the guy a wide berth.

“Hey,” the man said again. “Don’t I know you?”

Sam looked at him more closely. He had thick dark hair styled into a loose fauxhawk — a look that was way too young for the greying stubble coating the bottom half of his face.

Sam shook his head. “Sorry, man, I don’t think so.”

“No, no, I think I do,” the guy insisted, and Sam suddenly realized he was flanked by the man’s two friends.

“You’re that queer,” said the one closest to Sam’s right, the one with a bald head and big gut.

“Yeah,” said the other one, whom Sam could only describe as barrel-chested with really bad hair. “You’re the one Rogers made flowers for.”

Sam hesitated, assessing his options. He’d told himself a long time ago that he’d never be the kind of guy to get into a bar fight, no matter who provoked him about what. But he’d also told himself he wasn’t ever going to lie about who he was and who he loved. 

“Yeah, that was me,” he told them calmly, then gestured at the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my date’s waiting.”

The men didn’t move, but Sam didn’t really expect them to. “You going to see Flower Boy?” asked Fauxhawk through a sneer.

“Actually, yeah,” Sam replied. He could tell where this was going, and the part of him that loved adrenaline made him jut out his chin and add, “Jealous?”

Instead of answering, Bad Hair and Beer Gut grabbed Sam by the arms, and Fauxhawk approached him with a raised fist. Sam waited until the last second, then levered himself up and twisted in a move that Natasha had taught him. His feet connected with Fauxhawk’s chest, which was what he’d been hoping for, but Bad Hair overbalanced from the extra torque, and Sam wasn’t able to extract his arm in time.

All three of them collapsed in a heap. Sam hissed when his hip collided with the hard tile floor and nearly gagged from the smell of being pressed too close to Beer Gut. He pushed himself away, but before he could scramble to his feet, Fauxhawk had grabbed him by the blazer and hauled him up.

He got one good hit across Sam’s face; the coppery sting told him his lip had split. He got his hands up just in time to block another, but Fauxhawk was gaining ground, backing Sam into a corner.

“You think you can just come in here and flaunt it anywhere you like, huh?” Fauxhawk taunted as Sam writhed out of his hold, leaving him grasping an empty blazer. “Think you can stare at guys like that, like no one can see? I can teach you a thing or two, but you won’t like my methods. They tend to be a little painful. I’ll—”

“Man, shut the hell up,” Sam retorted, sick of listening.

Fauxhawk’s face contorted with anger. He tossed Sam’s blazer aside and took another swing, but Sam was ready for him. He ducked under his arm and circled around to give himself some room to maneuver.

Unfortunately, Fauxhawk’s bigger friends were climbing to their feet now. Sam gulped, sizing them up, and he took a few steps backwards, until he collided with something solid and warm.

“Rumlow, Rollins, Thomas. I should have known.”

Steve’s voice was hard and flat, far from the playful and kind tone Sam was familiar with, and Sam got a sudden burst of confidence, like he could take on any asshole with Steve beside him.

“Hey, Steve,” Sam greeted him. “You know these guys?”

“Nothing but your run-of-the-mill bullies,” Steve replied. “Brock Rumlow and I went to school together. Every once in a while he and his cronies get liquored up and come here looking for trouble.”

“Nothing personal, big guy,” Fauxhawk said with a smirk.

“It kind of feels personal,” Steve replied. “Now, all of you, get the fuck out of my bar.”

The three men stared at each other like they were having some sort of silent goon conference. Finally, Fauxhawk — probably Rumlow, since he seemed to be in charge — shrugged. Sam stepped aside to let Beer Gut and Bad Hair file silently out of the bathroom. They glared daggers at Steve as they passed.

Rumlow, however, stayed right where he was, and Steve sighed, crossing his arms across his chest.

“I can do this all day, Rumlow,” he said, like it was a reminder.

Rumlow stepped close, getting right between Sam and Steve. “You know what, Rogers? Maybe it is personal,” Rumlow declared. “And this ain’t your bar.”

Without warning, Rumlow whirled and threw his fist at Sam’s face again. Sam blocked it and held it, thinking that he’d be the bigger man here, but Rumlow fought dirty, bringing a knee up into Sam’s already tender hip. Sam grunted at the sudden pain and reacted without thinking, giving Rumlow a clean right hook. Rumlow stumbled back into Steve, who grabbed him by the collar of his t-shirt and hauled him outside, giving him a kick in the ass for good measure.

“Hey, Buck, can you do the honors?” Sam heard Steve ask from down the hall.

Too keyed up to stand still and wait for Steve to return, Sam paced towards the mirror, stopping on the way to scoop his blazer up off the floor. He tried to dust it off, but it was no use; he’d have to get it dry-cleaned.

“Good thing I didn’t wear the white,” he muttered.

He set the ruined blazer on the counter and bent to wash his hands. When he looked up, he grimaced at his reflection. There was dust and dirt on his knees, and his purple sweater was definitely rumpled. His bottom lip was swollen and bleeding pretty good — might even need stitches. He sighed and ran the water cold, wetting a paper towel to dab at the blood.

Steve appeared behind him in the mirror a minute later and winced. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied. “Some first date, huh?” he joked.

Steve chuckled nervously, looking away. “Believe it or not, I’ve had worse. Do you want some ice for that?”

Sam shook his head, even though ice was probably a good idea. “It’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Steve said quietly. He jerked his head towards the door. “Come on, I’ll pay for your cab home.”

“Home?” Sam repeated. He turned to face Steve, leaning back on the counter.

Steve shifted his weight and frowned. “Well, yeah. Don’t you want to—? I assumed you wouldn’t want to stay after... all that.”

“Uh,” Sam began awkwardly, but he was spared from having to answer because the dark-haired DJ came into the bathroom.

“Cops are here,” he announced.

Steve winced at Sam again. “Sorry, I have to deal with this.”

“It’s okay,” Sam reassured him. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Steve hesitated, then patted the DJ’s shoulder and left. Sam turned his back on the dark-haired man, assuming he’d leave, too, but he didn’t.

“So you’re Sam,” he said with a little smirk.

Sam nodded and turned around again, a little wary. “And you are?”

“James,” he replied, sticking out his right hand for Sam to shake. “But pretty much everyone calls me Bucky.”

“You escorted Rumlow out,” Sam observed.

Bucky nodded. “Stevie’s been going after guys twice his size since he was six years old, so I tend to tag along. Looks like you had it covered, though, huh?”

“Yeah. I guess,” Sam replied uncertainly.

Bucky glanced to the door before going on in a low, serious voice. “Look. Rumlow’s been going after Steve since we were kids. To be perfectly honest, Sam, I’d kill the fucker if I knew I could get away with it.”

Bucky paused, and Sam blinked, a little dazed.

“The, uh, cops are going to want to talk to you,” Bucky went on, gesturing at Sam’s face. “So do me a favor and don’t pretty that up, okay? Maybe we can get a restraining order or throw him in jail or something.”

Sam didn’t miss the trust Bucky was placing in him or the way he said _we_ , like he and Steve were a team, like he’d just decided that Sam was on that team, too.

“Sure thing,” he said after a moment, and Bucky gave him a quick, tight smile before he left.

Sam turned back to the mirror. He hesitated, then gritted his teeth and brought his hands up to his lip. He pinched and squeezed the area, making it more swollen, causing the blood to well up, and used his fingers to smear the redness around a little.

Then he washed his hands and headed out to speak to the police.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brock Rumlow is in the bar, and he confronts Sam in the bathroom about flirting/ogling/dating Steve. He uses the term "queer" in an offensive manner and threatens violence against Sam. A fist fight ensues, in which Sam sustains minor injuries. Sam and Steve kick Rumlow's ass, and he is taken away by Police Sergeant Thor Odinson.


	4. Thursday Evening: Part Two

Steve left Bucky in the bathroom with Sam, but he didn’t head down the hall right away. Instead, he stopped by the ATMs and pretended to read the anti-drinking and driving ads while his mind whirled and his stomach churned.

Half an hour ago, he’d been nervous. So nervous that he’d mixed up orders and nearly sliced his thumb open cutting limes. Now, he’d give anything to be nervous again. Because as much as he hated that feeling, that shaky energy that set up shop in the centre of his chest, this guilt was infinitely worse.

How could he have been so stupid as to bring Sam here, when he knew Rumlow and his pals were in the bar tonight? He should have texted Sam, told him to meet him someplace else, someplace nicer, classier. A guy like Sam deserved that. But instead Steve had gotten him hurt, led him into trouble, led him straight to an asshole like Rumlow, who, even after all these years, was still managing to ruin Steve’s life.

After a minute, Steve gave his head a sharp shake. He had to talk to the cops, had to do something about what had happened. This was on him; he had to deal with it. Now.

Maria, behind the bar, just pointed towards the kitchen doors when Steve approached. As usual, she’d been the one to call the cops — Steve would swear she had a sort of sixth sense about when something violent was about to go down.

He went through the bustling kitchen until he came to the alcove by the back door, where the kitchen staff took their breaks. There he found Rumlow and his pals, cuffed and sitting on the floor with their backs to the wall, watched by two officers — a man and a woman. The man, tall and blonde, was talking into his cell phone. From the stripes on his sleeve, Steve guessed that he outranked the other.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Rumlow crooned as Steve approached.

Steve had just made the decision not to reply when he heard a grunt of pain.

“Whoops, I’m so clumsy,” said the female officer in a sweet, innocent voice.

“Enough,” the blonde officer said, softly but firmly. He put away his phone and extended a hand for Steve to shake. “I’m Sergeant Odinson, and this is Officer Sif.”

“Steve Rogers,” said Steve. “Thank you for coming.”

“Just doing our jobs,” Sif replied briskly. “Now, why don’t you tell us—”

“Samuel!” cried Sergeant Odinson suddenly.

Steve turned in time to see Sam approaching. His lip looked even worse under the harsh fluorescent kitchen lights, but he was smiling.

“Hey, Thor,” he said, sounding surprised. “I didn’t know this was your beat.”

“It isn't,” Odinson replied. “But Jane told me this was your new favorite establishment, so when the call came, I volunteered.”

“Not to mention voluntelling me, too,” Sif muttered.

“You’re injured,” said Sergeant Odinson to Sam, ignoring her. “I’ll fetch the first aid kit.”

Sam waved a hand. “It’s nothing.”

“Sam,” said Steve, once he’d suppressed the guilty little flutter he got at the idea that The Helicarrier was Sam’s new favorite bar. “Maybe you should let him check you out. It looks pretty bad.”

“Trust me, it’s fine,” Sam insisted.

“But—” Steve began again, but the police sergeant cut him off with a deep laugh.

“Samuel, does he not know your trade?” Sam shook his head, looking down embarrassedly. “Sam is an EMT,” the sergeant continued. “The best paramedic in Brooklyn. Well, second best.”

“After Jane,” Sam added at the exact same time Sergeant Odinson said it, and they both laughed.

“You guys are weird,” said Rumlow from the floor. “Fucking f—”

“Oh, my!” cried Sif, cutting him off. “I feel another attack of clumsiness coming on.”

Odinson turned, lightning fast, and grabbed her by the arm. He and Sam sent each other a long-suffering look as she wriggled, and Steve felt an immediate surge of affection for Sif. She was small but clearly strong and willing to take no shit. Steve could relate.

“If Samuel says he’s fine, I trust his judgement,” Odinson explained to Steve, once Sif had finished rolling her eyes and huffing dramatically. “Now why don’t you tell me what happened.”

The cops took their statements — it was all Steve could do not to deck Rumlow once he heard what he’d said to Sam in the bathroom — and eventually the three stooges were taken away in a cruiser. Sif promised to call them in the morning to follow up, and Sam followed Sergeant Odinson outside to have a quiet conversation. He left the back door open, but Steve didn’t want to eavesdrop. He busied himself by filling a sandwich bag with ice and handed it to Sam as soon as he re-entered.

“Thanks, man,” Sam said, pressing the makeshift cold pack to his lip, which was starting to look better.

“What were you talking about with the cops?” Steve asked.

“Uh.” Sam glanced over Steve’s shoulder at the busy kitchen. “Can we get out of here?”

“Yeah, sure,” Steve said, surprised. “I’ve got to grab my coat and say bye to Bucky, why don’t you sit down at the bar for a minute?”

Sam nodded and gestured for Steve to lead them back indoors. “I actually never did get to take a leak earlier.”

“Great,” said Steve, then he winced at his wording.

Bucky was chatting up the crowd, introducing a mousy woman named Jennifer who was apparently going to start the party with some Shania Twain. Steve grimaced, hoping for everyone’s sake that the song selection would improve as the night went on. He leaned by the door frame, behind the speakers, and signalled Bucky once he had the music started. Bucky nodded and headed towards him.

“You heading out?” Bucky asked, as Jennifer shouted _Let’s go, girls!_ into the microphone, somehow already off-key. “You better take Sam somewhere nice, after all this.”

Steve shrugged. “I don’t know. I might just take him home.”

Bucky grinned lasciviously. “Now there’s a plan.”

“Not what I meant,” Steve said sternly, but after a moment, all his anxieties about the night crashed in on him again. “He probably doesn’t want to go out with me. A bar fight isn’t usually a good relationship omen.”

“Hey, you never know,” Bucky replied, but all joking was gone from his face. He put a hand on Steve’s shoulder, squeezed. “Don’t sell yourself short, Stevie.”

Steve smiled at the floor. “Thanks, Buck. I’m just not very good at this.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” said Bucky, pulling away. “I was there for the great vomiting of 2002, remember?”

Steve rolled his eyes, but Bucky’s teasing did make him feel better. “Please. I was 17, and you made me take Sharon on the Cyclone after three Slushies and four hotdogs. Anybody would’ve hurled.”

“I didn’t. Nat didn’t.”

“I’m leaving now,” Steve said decisively. Then, just to piss Bucky off, he added, “Have a good night, Mr. DJ.”

“Shut it,” Bucky growled as he pulled his earplugs out of his pocket and put them in. “You know I’m only here because Dum Dum lived up to his name. Who in the hell buys a karaoke business right before shipping out?”

“You’re a good friend for taking it over, and we all love you,” Steve said sweetly. “Hey, maybe Sam and I should just stay here, do a little Bohemian Rhapsody.”

Bucky’s murderous glare really was second to none. “You wouldn’t.”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Good,” Bucky said, punching Steve’s arm and nodding over his shoulder. “Sam’s waiting for you.”

Steve turned to see Sam leaning on the bar behind him. He smiled and got a faint smile back.

“What the hell are you waiting for, punk, get out of here,” Bucky ordered. He shoved Steve in Sam’s direction and waved as he headed back to the DJ table.

“Ready?” Sam asked.

Steve nodded, gesturing back to the kitchen. Sam followed him through, and they headed for the back door.

Steve couldn’t help but notice after a few steps that Sam was limping slightly. He looked over, saw Sam pressing the ice bag to his hip instead of his face.

“Rumlow hurt you somewhere else,” he said, trying to ask it as a question, but it didn’t quite work.

“I fell,” Sam corrected him. “It’s okay, just a bruise.”

Steve drew in a deep breath and nodded, reminding himself that Sam was both a professional medic and knew his body better than anyone else.

“Are you sure you still want to go out?” Steve asked when they reached the parking lot. “Because you could just go home. If you’re tired. And you’re hurt,” he added, aware that he was babbling. “So you probably just want to call it a night, right? I mean—”

“Hey,” said Sam, stopping him with a warm hand on Steve’s arm. “Do you still want to go out with me?”

Steve stared at him, at the bloody contusion that was all Steve’s fault. None of this would have happened he hadn’t suggested they meet at The Helicarrier tonight, not to mention if he hadn’t— but Steve didn’t want to think about Brock Rumlow, didn’t want to devote any more energy to that scumbag.

“Okay,” Sam said, tightening his grip to draw Steve’s attention. “I can see you overthinking the hell out of this, so I’ll simplify the question. Do you, Steve Rogers, want to go get frozen yogurt with me, Sam Wilson, right now?”

“I’m lactose intolerant,” Steve replied automatically, cringing when Sam hung his head. “But I know a place nearby that has great sorbet,” Steve added in a rush.

Sam raised his eyes without lifting his head. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he said, which made Steve’s cheeks get remarkably warm. “Lead the way.”

* * *

Ten seconds after they sat down across from each other, Steve remembered why he hated dating. Flirting with a handsome customer was one thing, and getting into a fist fight in the bathroom was another, but an actual date?

Steve had to wipe his hands on his jeans before picking up his spoon. “So,” he began awkwardly. “You’re a paramedic.”

“Yep,” Sam replied, poking at his sprinkle-coated pile of vanilla yogurt. “For about five years now.”

“You like it?”

Sam ate a spoonful of yogurt before replying. “Yeah. I mean, it’s tough sometimes, but it feels good to be out there, you know, in the world. Making a difference.”

“Wow. And here I am just a bartender,” Steve muttered before he could stop himself.

“Hey, now,” Sam protested, with a flash of his gorgeous smile. “There are a lot of people who’d say that bartenders make a difference in the world.”

Steve chuckled and shook his head. “Maybe. But I don’t think you’d want to meet any of them.”

“I’ve worked a lot of midnights,” Sam replied. “I’ve probably met quite of few of them already.”

Steve smiled faintly, but didn’t reply, and the silence stretched between them. He took a bite of his lemon raspberry sorbet, wishing that he was in the right state of mind to enjoy it tonight.

“So, that cop,” Sam said a moment later. “Sergeant Odinson?”

“Yeah?” Steve said, grasping at the change of subject like it was a life preserver.

“He couldn’t say this to you officially, but he asked me to pass it along. He said you should think about filing a restraining order against Rumlow.”

Steve sighed and stabbed his spoon into the middle of his sorbet so that it stood straight up. Typical Rumlow, he thought. Poisoning everything.

“And your, uh, DJ friend,” Sam went on, somewhat hesitantly. “He said the same thing.”

“Dammit Bucky,” Steve muttered, slumping back in his seat.

“Look, you don’t have to tell me anything,” said Sam, sounding reasonable but kind. “I mean, we’re practically strangers, so if it’s something personal—”

“It is,” Steve admitted, in a tone that was sharper than he’d meant it to be.

Sam’s face hardened a little. “Okay,” he said stiffly.

Steve dropped his gaze. He could feel Sam looking at him, probably imagining all sorts of terrible scenarios that could have gone down between him and Brock, when the truth of the matter was that Steve was just a goddamned idiot.

Sam set his spoon into the yogurt bowl and pushed back from the table. “Look,” he said tightly. “I just wanted to let you know that you can trust Thor. He’ll help you any way he can. You don’t have to deal with this all by yourself.”

Steve opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. He shook his head. “Yeah, I do,” he ground out at length.

Sam stared at him a moment, then stood up. “Or maybe you just like it like that.”

It took Steve a moment to process what he’d said, and by the time he did, Sam was already at the door. Steve scrambled to his feet, nearly upsetting the table in his haste.

“Sam, wait,” he called, as he followed Sam out to the street. “Please?”

Sam stopped, but he didn’t turn around.

“I’m sorry,” Steve told him when he caught up. “Sam, I’m sorry. I just—”

“Yeah,” Sam said shortly, cutting him off. “Look, it’s late. I should probably head out.”

“Let me walk you home,” Steve pleaded.

Sam stepped to the curb, held up an arm. “It’s fine, I’ll cab it. Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight,” Steve said helplessly as the taxi pulled up. “Maybe we can try it again some time,” he added, shoving his hands into his pockets.

He didn’t expect an answer — he’d said it more or less sarcastically — but Sam opened the car door and turned back. Steve’s heart leapt up into his throat.

“This was a weird night,” Sam declared with a little sigh.

“You’re telling me,” Steve agreed. “Kind of a disaster.”

“Yeah. I need some time to think things over, okay? I’ll call you,” Sam promised.

Steve nodded. He’d heard that before. “Okay.”

Sam must have noticed the doubtful tone because he stepped back, took Steve’s hand and squeezed it. “I will.”

“Okay,” Steve said again, more softly, with a small smile that Sam returned.

“If you two could stop making gooey eyes at each other, I’d really appreciate it,” the cab driver shouted over his shoulder. “It’s not like you’ll never see each other again, you know. This is a romantic comedy.”

The man’s voice — and wacky, non sequitur comments — sounded familiar, so Steve ducked his head into the car as Sam climbed in. “Hey, Wade,” he called.

“What’s up, asshole,” said the driver carelessly, then he looked again. “Oh, sorry, Steve. Reflex. Though, in this case, not far off the mark. How’s it going? You going to pay me for sitting here or what?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve chuckled. He pulled some bills out of his pocket and pressed them into Sam’s hand. “Goodnight, Sam.”

To Steve’s surprise, Sam pecked him on the cheek in return. “Goodnight.”

Steve stayed on the sidewalk long after the cab had pulled away, watching the red tail lights fade into the blurry traffic of the city that never slept. His cheek tingled where Sam’s lips had been, and, in his chest, there was a nest of sadness, hope, and fear, with just a few lingering tendrils of anger.

Taking some time to think things over was a really good idea, Steve realized. Sam knew what he was doing.

“One more reason he’s way out of your league, Rogers,” Steve muttered.


	5. Sunday, Late Afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I need some fluff right now, and you probably do, too.

Sam’s phone was taunting him.

He’d left it in his bedroom all morning, purposefully ignoring it while he went for an extra-long run, did the dishes, swept the kitchen floor, and cleaned out his fridge. Now it sat on the coffee table in front of him while he played X-Box and tried to ignore the way that it seemed to be staring at him, silently asking him why he hadn’t called Steve yet.

The last two days had been a blur, and even if he’d wanted to, he wouldn’t have been able to call, since he’d worked twelve-hour shifts that had ended at midnight. Normally he’d be working today as well, but last week he’d switched for tomorrow instead, optimistically thinking that maybe he’d go to The Helicarrier after work Saturday night, and maybe he’d want Sunday to hang out with Steve on their mutual day off.

Yeah, right.

It had been stupid, he knew, and not to mention rude, to have walked out like that the other night; Steve didn’t deserve that. But when Steve said he had to deal with Rumlow on his own, when he’d clammed up about something that was obviously a painful topic, all Sam could see was Riley shutting him out, telling him nothing was wrong, that he could handle everything alone, even as he — and their marriage — began to unravel before Sam’s very eyes. And Sam just couldn’t do the tall, blonde, and stoic thing again. There was too much on the line.

He knew that Steve wasn’t Riley, that this was just his fearful broken heart talking, that he needed to learn how to trust again, but there was a big difference between knowing something and feeling something. Like he _knew_ that he had to call Steve and apologize, but every time he picked up the phone and started dialling, he _felt_ like crawling under a blanket and never coming back out.

“Need some time to think things over,” he muttered, tossing the phone back on the coffee table. “Whatever you say, Wilson.”

He’d chosen a good distraction, at least. _58 th Pararescue_ was a great game. He and his team had just airlifted an injured commander to safety and were holding their position against enemy forces, when Natasha strolled through his front door and flopped down on the couch beside him.

“Hey,” she said carelessly.

“Hey,” Sam echoed, taking his eyes off the screen for a second to frown at her. “I’m pretty sure I remember locking that door.”

“Well, my mother always said video games would turn your brain to mush,” Natasha sighed. She slumped over, leaning against Sam’s shoulder. “Turn that off and comfort me.”

Sam paused the game immediately and brought his arm up around Natasha. “Sweetie, what happened?”

Natasha sighed again. “I got some upsetting news about Clint.”

“Is he okay?” Sam demanded.

“He’s better than okay,” Natasha muttered against his shoulder. “He’s _married._ With kids. Can you believe it?”

“Honestly, no,” Sam admitted, after mentally giving her shit for psyching him out like that. “He never brought it up in all the time you two have been hanging out?”

“Not a word.” Without asking permission, Natasha snagged Sam’s half-finished Coke off the coffee table and took a swig. “That’s weird, right?”

“That’s weird,” Sam agreed. He declined the soda when she offered, so she polished it off. “Unless— does he want some action on the side?”

“No,” Natasha said firmly. “And even if he did, that is not my thing.”

Sam nodded, trying not to let his surprise show. Not that he thought Natasha would fool around with a married guy, but she had a bit of a reputation for being ruthless when it came to something she wanted. That was what had led her into trouble with ballet a few years ago.

“Did he at least give you an explanation for the big secret?”

Natasha shrugged. “Apparently, his wife is on TV, some kind of celebrity chef or something, so he keeps a low profile.”

Sam couldn’t help it. “A celebrity? Who is she?”

“Laura Hawk,” Natasha said with another shrug. “Name doesn’t mean anything to me, I don’t watch those shows.”

“Wow,” Sam murmured. “That is kind of a big deal. Chef Laura taught me how to make crème brûlée.”

“I remember that,” Natasha teased, shoving at his shoulder playfully. “You nearly burned down the apartment.”

“Hey, that was not Chef Laura’s fault,” Sam said. He was trying to be stern, but he was laughing.

“Best Christmas ever,” Natasha said brightly. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam grumbled, still chuckling. He paused, let out a little sigh. “I get why Clint didn’t say anything, I guess. If my wife was Laura Hawk....”

“Moot point,” Natasha protested. “You’ll never have a wife. Especially if Steve has anything to say about it. Did you call him yet?”

Sam groaned inwardly. Not her, too.

“Judging from your face, that’s a no,” Natasha commented. She patted his thigh and rose from the couch to take the empty soda can to the recycling bin in the kitchen. “Can’t put it off forever, Sam, he’s not going to wait that long.”

“I just don’t know what I’d say,” Sam protested feebly.

“Well, you better figure it out fast,” Natasha replied, her voice suddenly much closer. Sam looked up to find that she’d turned off the TV and was standing in front of him with her arms crossed. “I’m here under strict orders to clean you up and get you ready to go out.”

“Out?” Sam repeated. “I don’t want to go out, Tasha, I’ve got work at noon tomorrow, and— wait,” he said suddenly, his eyes narrowing as the rest of what she’d said caught up with him. “Under strict orders? What does that—? Did Steve send you here?”

“Nope,” she said, cheerful. She reached out and took Sam’s hands to haul him to his feet. “Now, come on. Shower time. I’ll lay out your clothes.”

* * *

Steve wished he were painting. An hour ago, he’d been painting. Or rather, he’d been in the spare room that served as his studio, staring at a blank canvas and willing the phone beside his palette to ring.

But anything was better than watching Bucky rifle through his closet, critiquing every piece of clothing he owned. He sighed wistfully while Bucky rummaged around, throwing one shirt straight into the wastebasket beside his nightstand.

“Don’t you have anything that doesn’t look like it came out of the 1940s?” Bucky asked.

“It’s not that bad,” Steve protested, dodging another shirt as it sailed towards the garbage with uncanny accuracy. “Besides, I don’t even know why you’re dragging me out tonight. I told you, I don’t want to go.”

“You’re just mad I’m keeping you from getting another Guinness World Record for Longest Sulk,” Bucky muttered.

“I wasn’t sulking,” Steve reminded him for what had to be the tenth time in as many minutes. “I don’t sulk.”

Bucky turned with a skeptical look on his face and a blue collared shirt in his arms. “Please tell me you have something other than khakis to wear with this.”

“Uh... how about my black jeans?” Steve suggested.

“Perfect,” Bucky declared. He tossed the shirt on the bed and pointed at Steve sternly. “Now shower and get changed. You’ve got thirty minutes.”

He backed out of the room, still pointing and glaring, and closed the door. Steve stared after him a moment, then forced himself to move, pulling off his stained painting clothes.

“Thirty minutes till what?” he called from inside his sweatshirt.

“I don’t hear showering,” Bucky hollered back.

“Bossy,” Steve said under his breath, but he headed into the ensuite bathroom to get the water running.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Steve understood why he needed to be dressed nicely when the cab pulled up in front of a swanky restaurant. What he didn’t understand was why he was here with Bucky, who’d changed into a silvery shirt that seemed to shimmer green in certain lights.

“Um,” Steve said finally, as the two of them clamored out of the car. “This isn’t a date, is it, Bucky?”

“With me?” Bucky asked, falling into step on Steve’s left. He sent Steve a lingering sideways glance, and Steve had been checked out enough to know what it looked like. “How would you feel if it was?”

Steve blinked. “Honestly? Kind of sick.”

Bucky burst out laughing. “I guess that’s my answer, huh,” he said. “Good thing you’re not my type, Stevie. You might’ve just broke my heart.”

“Sorry,” said Steve hastily. “It’s just that I’ve never, uh—”

“I’m just fucking with you, man,” Bucky said, still chuckling. “You are so gullible.”

He opened the restaurant door with his left hand. Steve caught a glimpse of his grey tattoos when the cuff slid up.

“Jerk,” Steve muttered as he passed through. Bucky just smirked.

“Reservation for Barnes,” he told the host. “B-A-R—”

“I can spell,” the host snapped, right before he grinned and stuck out his hand. “What’s up, Bucky?”

“Phil, my man, how’s it hanging?” Bucky asked with a flash of his bright smile. “Appreciate you getting us a table tonight.”

“Anything for the great Bucky Barnes,” Phil replied.

He couldn’t have been more than ten years older than Steve, but in a fancy suit, he looked like somebody’s accountant father, aside from the hipster glasses and the black half-inch plugs in his earlobes. Steve wondered if he had a bunch of hidden tattoos, too, but before he could glance at Phil’s wrists or neck, Phil grabbed two menus and led them through the restaurant to a booth in the back.

“The way you rocked my gallery opening, man, I feel like I should be thanking you,” Phil continued over his shoulder.

“Aw, that was nothing,” Bucky demurred, but his face was a little pink.

“Gallery?” Steve repeated.

“Yeah,” said Phil. “Up in Hell's Kitchen. It’s just getting off the ground, might never make any money at it, but it’s a pet project.”

“Nice,” said Steve.

He took a seat when Phil gestured, and, to his surprise, Bucky squeezed in beside him on the leather bench. Steve wrinkled his nose and gave Bucky a little shove, but Bucky only moved closer.

“You’re an artist, right?” asked Phil. “You should come by sometime, maybe we can put some of your stuff up if you’re looking to sell.”

“That’d be— wow, really?” Steve asked, his attention momentarily diverted from Bucky’s sudden urge to get cuddly.

Phil shrugged. “Why not? But hey, I got to get back to the door. Bucky can give you my number.”

“Thanks again, Phil,” said Bucky. “And, uh, you remember the plan?”

Phil nodded. “Sure do. See you around, Barnes.”

“The plan?” Steve repeated.

Bucky opened his menu and didn’t reply.

“Buck,” Steve said pointedly after a moment. “What’s the plan? What was he talking about?”

“None of your beeswax,” Bucky murmured. “Now, what’s a good imported beer? I want to look sophisticated.”

“Why?” Steve huffed.

Bucky fell suspiciously silent again. Steve drummed his fingers on the table, then finally sighed and opened his own menu.

“Can you at least tell me why you’re practically sitting in my lap?” he complained. “You said this isn’t a date, so—”

Bucky’s phone chimed in his pocket. Without looking at it, his head shot up and he grinned at something across the restaurant. “I never said this wasn’t a date. It’s just not a date with me.”

Puzzled, Steve followed Bucky’s gaze. There was a beautiful red-haired woman at the host station, chatting with Phil, and at her side was—

“Sam,” Steve breathed.

Phil pointed the couple towards Steve and Bucky, and Steve allowed himself a moment to drink in Sam’s appearance — red collared shirt and dark jeans that were just a hair too tight in all the right places — before glaring at Bucky.

“What did you do?”

“Me?” Bucky said, way too innocently. “It was mostly her idea.”

“And who is her?” Steve asked.

“Wow, Rogers, you really know how to make a girl feel special,” said the woman in question, who was now standing right next to their booth, along with Sam and Phil, who was smirking.

Bucky wormed his way out of his seat and gave her a hug. “Natalia,” he sighed, his voice muffled slightly by her hair. “Never change.”

“Nat— oh my gosh,” said Steve, and he leapt to his feet as well. “Natasha Romanov, what are you doing here?”

“Cleaning up after your dumb ass, same as always,” she replied in a low voice, giving him a hug that was a lot quicker and more platonic than Bucky’s. “I think you know my companion,” she added, as they broke apart.

“Hey, Steve,” said Sam.

“Hi,” Steve replied.

Sam smiled at him, but he looked about as awkward as Steve felt, his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets like he was trying to be small. It was a look Steve recognized, and he felt his body trying to emulate the posture without meaning to.

Bucky and Natasha, after seeming to have some kind of conversation using nothing but their eyes, shoved Steve and Sam into the booth. They settled opposite each other, with Bucky and Natasha sliding in beside them.

“More menus,” said Phil, setting them down surreptitiously before turning on his heel and heading back to the front door.

There was a beat of awkward silence after Phil left. Steve was trying not to look at Sam, and he got the impression Sam was trying not to look at him.

“So,” said Bucky abruptly, bright and cheerful enough that Steve kind of wanted to punch him in the face. “How about them Yankees?”


	6. Sunday Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief (very brief!) mention of recovery from an eating disorder. See end notes for more details.

It was a very effective icebreaker. Almost involuntarily, Steve groaned like he always did when his least favorite team was mentioned, and, across from him, Sam did, too.

Steve met his eyes, startled, and asked, “Mets?”

“You know it,” Sam replied with a hint of that gap-toothed smile that Steve had found so charming from day one. “Though I really like watching the Cyclones play, too. Tickets are cheap, games are closer to home.”

“It’s a miracle you guys didn’t meet before,” Bucky said, whacking Steve’s thigh under the table.

“Ow, what the hell?” Steve mumbled, but no one seemed to notice.

“Steve goes to the Cyclones’ games all the time,” Bucky went on, giving Steve a glare and a smile that was mostly teeth. “Don’t you, Steve?”

“Well,” Steve said, rubbing his thigh, “I wouldn’t say _all_ the time, but—”

Bucky punched him again, and Steve caught on.

“But I go when I can,” he added in a rush. “We should— maybe we could go to a game together sometime? If you want.”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “That sounds great.”

“I don’t know why that was so hard,” Natasha lamented, after she and Bucky shared another look and a nod. “Baseball is so boring, it’s like you’re inviting someone to come over and watch paint dry.”

“Careful now,” Bucky warned her. “Or Steve might ask if you want to take this discussion outside.”

Natasha met Steve’s eye, unthreatened. “He could try.”

Steve laughed. “Missed you, too, Nat.”

“So, you guys used to kick each other’s asses all the time, back in the day?” Sam asked.

“No, we were more like a team,” Steve protested, but Bucky cut him off with a snort.

“If by that you mean you leading us into a dozen fights a week, then yeah, we were a team.”

Steve glanced at Sam, chagrined, but Sam was smiling at him. He had a question in his eyes, but the waitress turned up then, wondering what they wanted to drink.  

Bucky got a beer whose name he could barely pronounce — Steve rolled his eyes — while Natasha asked for a vodka martini. When the waitress turned to Steve expectantly, he managed to keep a straight face and ask about the house wine. Across from him, Sam shook his head with a little chuckle and ordered the same.

“Thought you hated wine,” Steve teased.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I can have it at home,” Sam replied. “Not without the right glasses.”

“You do know you can drink wine out of a regular glass, right?” Natasha put in, not raising her eyes from the menu.

“Sure, if you’re a barbarian,” Sam muttered, and Steve laughed.

After a few minutes of examining the menu in silence, Bucky took a deep breath, licked his lips, and leaned across the table towards Natasha.

He spoke slowly, haltingly, and it was so unlike his usual tone that it took Steve a second to realize that he wasn’t even speaking English. Of course, Steve thought, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes again. Bucky _would_ try to speak Russian to impress her; it was like high school all over again. Steve was pretty sure that Natasha was the only reason Bucky started studying it in the first place, even though he claimed he liked the poetry.

When he was done stammering at her, Natasha raised her eyebrows and answered in kind, a lot more fluently.

Bucky winced and shook his head. “Been too long since college. I only caught about half of that.”

“Too bad,” said Natasha loftily.

“So you all went to school together?” Sam asked, though it sounded like he already knew the answer. “Three musketeers and all that?”

“More like six,” Bucky said. “Me, Stevie, Natalia, Share-Bear—”

“Sharon,” Steve corrected softly. It’d been years, but if anyone was going to come crashing through the door to kick Bucky Barnes’s ass for a stupid nickname, it’d be Sharon Carter.

“—Pegs, and Gabe,” Bucky finished.

“Gabe was more with Dum Dum’s crew, though,” Steve said. “You and the Army brats.”

“Army?” Sam repeated with some interest. “You a vet, Bucky?”

“Me? Hell, no,” said Bucky with a shake of his head. “But a lot of our friends signed up right out of high school — you know, 9/11 and whatnot.”

Sam nodded knowingly. “My ex joined up around that time, too. Air Force. Said it seemed like the thing to do.”

He met Steve’s eye briefly, and it looked like he was going to say more, but he seemed to change his mind at the last second, and turned back to the menu in front of him.

“Ah, 2003,” Bucky sighed. “Different times. But I’m still not one for the 5:00 reveille.”

Sam chuckled. “Fair enough.”

“I might’ve been, if they’d taken Steve,” Bucky added, drumming his fingers on the table in a rhythm that Steve didn’t recognize.

“You tried?” Sam asked him.

Steve nodded. “Still have some health issues from when I was a kid, though,” he said, long past being embarrassed by his history. “The biggest being my asthma. It’s pretty much latent now, but it still kicks up once in a blue moon, and the military didn’t like that.”

“Do you carry an inhaler?”

“Sam, stop being a doctor for a minute,” Natasha rebuked, still not looking up.

“I’m not a—” Sam began, at the same time Bucky whacked Steve’s leg under the table.

“You didn’t tell me he was a doctor!”

“Paramedic,” Sam corrected, rolling his eyes.

“Still,” said Bucky, leaning back so the waitress could place their drinks down in front of them. “That makes you the only person at this table with a real job. Unless— what are you doing nowadays, Natalia?”

Natasha looked up at last, a strange smile twisting her features. “Don’t worry, I don’t have a real job, either. I work reception at a hotel.”

Steve almost flinched; Bucky almost did, too. Natasha was always the one who had the biggest dreams, the most drive. She’d worked harder than any of them did in high school — hours of practice in the studio before and after classes — and when she left high school to attend a dance academy, Steve had been positive that he’d be reading her name in the papers before too long.

Across from Steve, Sam had gone tense and still, his eyes on Nat, though they flicked to Bucky every few seconds. It was strange, but Steve got the impression he was protecting her, that he’d go after Bucky in a heartbeat if he so much as breathed on her wrong.

“Pays the bills, right?” Bucky said softly. “You should see my day job.”

“Oh, Sam told me all about that,” Natasha replied with a faint laugh, dissipating the weird tension that had been hanging all around them. “So, uh, hey, Mr. DJ, can you put a record on? I wanna dance with my baby...”

“Ugh,” said Bucky.

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” Steve chimed in. He adopted the lilting, half-singing tone that Nat had used. “You know, music... makes the people... come together.”

“Ugh,” said Bucky again, and this time he thunked his head down on the table. “I have the worst taste in friends.”

Natasha nudged Sam. “Your turn.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “I’m not quoting Madonna. The man has clearly suffered enough.”

Bucky looked up with a grin. “I think I like you, Sam.”

“Now, if it were Beyoncé...” Sam added, and Bucky laughed outright.

The waitress returned right then for their dinner orders, no doubt stopping Bucky from making another smartass remark. Steve smiled across the table at Sam and was pleased when he got a smile back. He  wanted to reach across the table and squeeze Sam’s hand, but he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. It just felt so natural, being together as a group tonight. Like coming home, like Sam had been here all along, and Steve was only just remembering.

“A toast,” he said once the waitress left, lifting his glass and waiting for the others to do the same. “To old friends and new friends, and to the first date we should have had, Sam.”

They drank, and Steve mouthed _I’m sorry_. Sam nodded solemnly.

“Really glad you came out with us tonight, Sam,” said Bucky after a pause.

“Not like I had much choice,” Sam replied, bumping shoulders with Natasha.

“I’m still glad,” Bucky told him. “Steve’s first dates are notoriously bad — it’s good of you to give him a second chance.”

“So you weren’t kidding when you said you’d had worse?” Sam asked Steve, his eyes sparkling with concealed laughter.

Steve’s face, already a bit warm from the wine he was drinking, flushed hotter with embarrassment. He shook his head, and Natasha laughed.

“Do you remember Coney Island?” she asked. “Junior year, just before I left to go to the academy?”

“Do I— hmm...” Bucky pretended to think about it. “You know, I think something’s coming back to me, Nat.”

“Bucky, don’t,” Steve begged.

Bucky ignored him completely, leaning across the table towards Sam. “So, this one night, me, Nat, Steve, and Peggy’s cousin Sharon went to Coney Island on a double date, and I dared Steve to ride the Cyclone....”

* * *

As they ate, Sam found himself losing track of the conversation a little as Steve, Bucky and Natasha talked about their old friends, people he had never met. So he listened, nodding when he needed to, finding himself more often than not just watching them interact, especially Bucky and Natasha. Sam noted the easy grace between them, the way he listened to each and every word she said, the way his gray eyes crinkled at the edges when she made him laugh.

Bucky loved her. He’d loved her a long time, maybe even longer than either of them knew.

And then there was the way Natasha seemed around Bucky: relaxed even though eating around other people was one of the challenges she faced on a daily basis. Sam knew she was eating slowly and with intention, but judging from the way she smiled at Bucky, no one else would ever notice. Sam was careful not to stare, though; he didn’t want to make her self-conscious.

Still, she looked like Sam had never seen her before, like she was seventeen again, or how Sam might imagine she looked when she was seventeen: the shy smile never left her lips, and she played with the ends of her hair whenever she set down her fork. Sam got it now; he hadn’t before, that night that they’d had too much to drink, and Natasha had mentioned an old boyfriend, the one that got away. Until tonight, Sam honestly hadn’t believed her; it was just so hard for him to think of her young, carefree, and in love with an aspiring musician who took a class in Russian poetry just to impress her.

But Sam could tell that the heat was still there between them, maybe even stronger now that it had had some time to smolder, and soon it would catch.

Or, Sam hoped it would, anyway. Natasha deserved the best. 

When there was a brief lull in the conversation, Sam thought about bringing up the Mets again, to change the subject to something he could talk about, but Natasha spoke before he had the chance.

“So, speaking of the Army brats, whatever happened to Brock, Steve?”

Steve’s eyes found Sam’s for a split-second before he cleared his throat. “He’s back in New York,” he said carefully. “I see him sometimes.”

“You don’t,” Natasha said, sounding almost scolding. “You know he was never worth it the first time around.”

“What? No,” Steve said quickly, his face turning bright pink. “I don’t— I don’t _see him_ see him, I just— I see him. He’s around, I mean. He— uh...”

“Oh,” Sam said under his breath. He didn’t mean to, he’d only been trying to exhale, but his throat made a sound regardless.

Steve glanced up at Sam again, then looked away.

 _So that’s how it is_ , Sam thought. He should have guessed, with the way Rumlow seemed to get angriest when Sam had said he was seeing Steve, and with Steve’s unwillingness to press charges or file a restraining order.

“Yeah,” Bucky went on, filling the awkward silence. “You might’ve noticed, Nat, that Sam was sporting a split lip the last couple days? Well, that was courtesy of that asshole. Ruined karaoke night.”

Natasha turned sharply, her eyes narrowing as she inspected Sam’s face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sam shrugged, his face heating with the embarrassment of being caught out. “Work got in the way, for one thing, plus I knew you’d freak.”

Natasha tsked at him. “I hope you gave as good as you got,” she said sternly.

“Sure did,” Bucky gloated. “Should’ve seen the way Rumlow ran out of there with his tail between his legs.”

“What was he even doing at your bar?” Natasha asked Steve. “It’s not like New York’s a small town, it’s a hell of a coincidence—”

“Everybody doing okay here?” said the waitress, interrupting with a vapid grin.

“Just fine, thanks,” Steve said curtly. Once she’d left, he got to his feet. “I have to use the restroom.”

Sam’s shoulders slumped. _Here we go again_ , he almost said out loud.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha murmured after a few seconds of silence. “I didn’t realize—”

“It’s not your fault,” Bucky reassured her. “I told Steve a hundred times that he doesn’t have any reason to feel guilty about how things went down with Rumlow, but—”

“How did things go down?” Sam blurted out, unable to keep it in any longer.

Natasha and Bucky exchanged a glance. “I’ll kick his ass for not telling you the other night,” said Bucky.

“That won’t help me if he still won’t say anything,” Sam insisted.

“All right,” Bucky sighed. “Remember how I said that Rumlow’s been coming after Steve since we were kids? Well, before that, they were friends.”

“Good friends,” Natasha added. “Inseparable.”

“Right,” said Bucky. “But the thing is, Steve liked Brock more than Brock liked Steve, and when they were thirteen, Steve kissed him. Now, from what Steve’s told me, that wasn’t a big deal, but Steve thought they were together, and, in freshman year, he asked Brock to go to the school dance with him.”

“In front of everyone,” said Natasha.

Sam winced. He could see where this was going. “So everybody picked on them?”

“Not them,” Natasha corrected, her voice surprisingly gentle. “Just Brock.”

“See, Steve has this thing where he’s impervious to bullying,” Bucky explained. “He gets mad about it, and he’ll dive in if somebody else is getting hurt, but for himself—”

“Except for the people closest to him, he never cared what anybody thought of him,” Natasha put in. “I see that hasn’t really changed.”

“No,” Bucky agreed.

“So Brock was getting bullied, and Steve kept trying to save him,” said Sam, the picture becoming clearer and clearer. “I take it Rumlow didn’t like that.”

“Not one bit. He became the bully,” Natasha confirmed.

“And, as much as I felt bad for him, for what happened,” Bucky went on, fiddling with his napkin, “he crossed a lot of lines you just don’t cross.”

He looked up into Sam’s eyes, and Sam got a little chill. “But Steve still thinks he can save him?”

“He’d probably run into a burning building for that man, even though Brock would just throw gasoline on him.”

“I think he’s got a bit of a savior complex,” Natasha joked weakly.

Sam blinked. “Holy shit, I have a type,” he said without meaning to. He slid out from behind the table and stood up. “I’m gonna go talk to him.”

He headed for the men’s room with some trepidation, though now that he knew that guilt — and misplaced heroism — were at the heart of Steve’s issues with Rumlow, he felt a little more prepared. He could say what he needed to say about Steve needing to move on, about Sam needing a clear boundary in terms of what he could and couldn’t handle. If he wanted to be more than friends with Steve — which he did — then the time had come to start the conversation that he’d been putting off with Steve for three days, that he should have had with Riley years ago. He hoped that Steve would actually open up and talk about it this time, and not just close himself off the way Riley probably would.

Tough dudes and feelings, he thought as he pushed open the bathroom door. Maybe in another life he could have done this professionally.

“Hey,” Steve greeted him with a fleeting glance. He was standing with his back to the mirrors, resting that fantastic ass against the edge of the countertop.

“Hi,” said Sam. “You okay?”

Steve nodded, then seemed to reconsider and shook his head. “I don’t know. But this isn’t your problem, Sam. You shouldn’t have to deal with my baggage.”

“Everybody’s got baggage,” Sam replied. Steve gave him a sharp, skeptical look, so Sam shrugged. “I’m the one who walked away the other night,” he added.

“Sam—”

“My ex, Riley?” Sam began, cutting off whatever Steve was going to say, since this was an important part of what Steve needed to know about him. “Before we were married, he went overseas to fight the terrorists, and... he never came home.”

Steve frowned, confused.

“Physically, he was there,” Sam went on, pulling in a deep breath, “but it wasn’t him. I see it now, but back then, I didn’t realize what he was going through. I knew something was wrong, didn’t know what. So, when the law changed, and we could get married, I suggested it. Thought maybe it would bring us closer together, back to the way things were, but...”

Sam shook his head, but Steve seemed to be listening intently. Sam realized that maybe Steve wasn’t the only one who needed to open up.

“I only clued in when somebody from the VA called, asked if Riley was ever coming back to the PTSD group. I asked him about it, and he just clammed right up. I realized then that he’d shut me out completely.”

Steve nodded slowly. “So you broke up.”

“I asked him to leave,” Sam corrected him with a shrug. “Maybe I thought he’d fight me on it, I don’t know. But he didn’t. Just packed his things and left. We were together almost ten years, and just like that, he was gone.”

Silence fell when Sam stopped talking, and, after a long moment, Steve lifted his eyes from the tile floor. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” Sam murmured. He took another deep breath. “But my point is that nobody comes into a new relationship without tripping over a few bags.”

Steve smiled faintly. “Is that what we have here? A new relationship?”

“It’s what I’d like,” Sam replied honestly. He stepped a little closer, placed his hand experimentally over Steve’s. “I like you, Steve, and I think there’s something here.”

“Me too, Sam,” said Steve. He sounded almost breathless. “I want to give it a shot.”

Sam saw what was coming a second before it happened. There was an instant where he could have stopped it, but he didn’t. Steve pushed himself away from the counter and gripped Sam’s forearms, steady as he tilted forward to find Sam’s lips. Steve kissed like he was drowning, tugging Sam down with him into the riptide, his tongue sliding rough and easy against Sam’s, his hands shifting to Sam’s hips to pull him forward, but—

“Steve,” Sam said, breaking away.

Steve’s eyes widened. “Sorry. Sorry, I thought—”

“No, no, you thought right,” Sam said quickly. “That was— you thought right. But...”

“What? What is it?”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut briefly. It would be so easy to let this go, to just go home with Steve now, while things were easy, and pretend they always would be. He wanted to, Steve wanted to, hell, even Riley would want him to, but he had to say this before things went any further.

“Bucky and Natasha filled me in with what happened between you and Brock, and—”

Right on cue, Steve sighed and stepped back, dropping his hands from Sam’s sides. “Then you know what an idiot I am.”

“It was a long time ago,” Sam persisted. “Everybody’s an idiot when they’re a teenager. My sister almost stole a car once, for crying out loud. You have to let it go, forgive yourself. Because you can’t ever go back in time. Do you see what I’m saying?”

Steve clenched his jaw, but he nodded. “I do. I do see, Sam, it’s just— it’s hard to do that when Br— Rumlow won’t.”

“He’s chosen to define himself based on the past, but you don’t have to do that,” Sam told him. His voice had somehow gotten softer, more earnest, emphatic.

“I don’t see how that would work,” Steve replied. He was full-on scowling again.

Sam blew out a breath. “Look, you may not be able to stop him from living in the past, but you can stop him from dragging you down with him. You can do something — now, in the present — that can deal with this problem and put it behind you.”

“Restraining order,” Steve muttered.

Sam paused, breathed in deeply, before nodding. This was the hardest part, but the most important. “If you don’t want to do that, I understand. But I need you to understand that I’m not gonna stand by and watch you burn.”

Steve shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking down at the floor again. “Is this an ultimatum?”

“No,” Sam said softly. “This is me setting boundaries. Something I wish I’d known how to do with Riley.”

Steve nodded. “I can respect that.”

“Thank you,” said Sam, but he held his breath.

After another long, silent moment, Steve asked in a small voice, “What was the name of that police officer again?”

Sam breathed, felt a little smile start to creep across his face. “Sergeant Odinson. Thor Odinson.”

Steve looked like he was trying to keep a straight face. “What kind of name is that?”

“I know,” said Sam. He felt like a balloon had started to inflate around his heart, almost giddy with lightness after such a heavy conversation. “Sounds like the name of a prince or something.”

“Or a god,” Steve suggested. He took Sam’s hand, a little tentatively. “Demi-god, at least.”

“At least,” Sam agreed, and Steve pulled him forward until they were kissing again, gentler now, Steve’s tongue softly tracing the seam of his lips rather than forcing its way in.

They stayed that way, their mouths and bodies pressed tight together, until the creak of the door had them leaping apart guiltily.

“Holy Christ,” Bucky exclaimed, shaking his head as the door swung shut behind him. “Doesn’t anybody come in here to just take a leak anymore?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While it is not explicitly stated, this chapter implies that Natasha is recovering from an eating disorder (bulimia). In one short paragraph, Sam notes the way Natasha is eating and is careful not to make her self-conscious while she eats, since eating around people is one of the challenges she continues to face as a part of her recovery.


	7. Epilogue (One Year Later)

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Sam asked, taking Steve’s hand as they navigated the sidewalk. “Happy anniversary, baby.”

Steve beamed, so glad to have Sam on his left. “Same to you.”

They were on their way to Phil Coulson’s gallery in Hell’s Kitchen. Steve had taken Phil up on the offer to put a few of his paintings on display, and they’d sold so well that Phil had requested more. After two months of painting every day he wasn’t at The Helicarrier, Steve had produced enough to have a real show, or _gala_ , as Phil called it.

Steve was excited, but also nervous. Everyone was going to be there: Bucky and the Howlies would be there, even though they weren’t playing this time; Natasha was bringing some friends from her new job at the kickboxing studio; even Maria and Nick would be there. Steve had to make a speech, too; his palms were sweating just thinking about it.

But it was what Steve had planned after the gala that made his public speaking nerves look like nothing more than a minor set of the jitters. He hadn’t had stage fright this bad since he auditioned for _The Music Man_ in high school — his first and only foray into the world of musical theatre.  

“You have to admit it’s a good story,” Sam commented, bringing Steve out of his thoughts. They stopped to wait for the light to change. “How we met, I mean. You, me, alcohol. It has all the makings of a coyote ugly, but instead—”

“Ugly?” Steve protested with mock outrage.

Sam laughed. “As sin.”

He leaned over, to touch his warm lips to Steve’s in a soft, lingering kiss. Steve wanted nothing more than to stay on this street corner forever, his mouth and body pressed to Sam, wrapped up in the smell, the taste, of home, of where he belonged.

But Sam pulled back, his head turning sharply at the sound of raised voices, one male, one female, on the sidewalk behind them. Steve looked, too, though he didn’t see any cause for alarm; couples argued on the street all the time. But then—

“Shit,” Sam muttered, flying forward when the man dropped to his knees on the pavement, clutching his gut, his face contorted in pain.

The man’s companion, a red-haired woman with a green bandana covering the bottom half of her face, looked up, past Sam, and met Steve’s eyes. She stared for one beat, two, then she took off, and Steve went after her.

“Steve, don’t!” he heard Sam yell, but he didn’t look back, the buildings passing by in a blur of red and brown and gray. He had an absurd moment of gratitude, as he sped around a corner, his eyes locked on the woman, for all those mornings that Sam dragged him out of bed, even after a closing shift the night before, to run the park trails by his apartment.

He cornered the woman in an alley, and, when she saw she had nowhere left to hide, she flipped a knife out of her belt and swung it forward. Thinking fast, Steve grabbed the lid off an old garbage can beside him just in time to deflect the blade, then brought his knee up into his attacker’s midsection. The woman grunted, her fingers went limp, and the knife clattered away. Steve swung with his right fist, but the woman ducked, and when she straightened up again she had a gun pointed right between Steve’s eyes.

All of Steve’s plans for the night, for the rest of his life, vanished when the safety clicked off.

“Not such a hero now, are you?” she whispered, deadly quiet.

Steve felt like he had been turned to stone, even as his mind raced. All he could think of was Sam — Sam’s smile, Sam’s laugh, Sam’s hands, always warm on his skin, Sam’s kiss and touch, the way he cried out when he came, the way he’d shouted after Steve just moments ago, two blocks and a lifetime away. Would he hear the shot? Would he be the one to find him? Would he ever know what Steve had had planned before everything went to hell?

“Here’s what’s about to happen,” the woman murmured. She backed away, the gun steady in her slender hand, and headed for the end of the alley, walking backwards in her high-heeled snakeskin boots. “You’re not coming after me. Because I know what you look like, pretty boy, but you don’t have the foggiest—”

She tripped over an empty soda can, and something clicked in Steve’s mind. He saw a chance and took it, stepping forward and flinging the garbage can lid as hard as he could. It collided with her wrist, knocking the gun out of her hand, which went off as it landed, the bullet lodging itself in the brick wall to Steve’s right.

She lunged then, her fists flying at Steve’s face in a last-ditch effort. He held her off easily, but she pitched forward, upsetting Steve’s centre of balance. His back hit the ground, and a second later she was straddling him. Her eyes were smirking.

“Aren’t you at least gonna kiss me?” she drawled.

“Have to take your mask off for that,” Steve replied.

He tried to formulate his next move. His eyes darted around the alley, taking in the gun a few feet away, well within reach if she—

“Freeze! NYPD,” a woman shouted, and Steve breathed a small sigh of relief.

The cop, who was tall and beautiful, with dark curly hair and what seemed to be a permanent scowl, didn’t seem interested in hearing any explanation Steve had to give, and, for her part, the woman who’d been fighting Steve didn’t jump in with a spontaneous confession. Steve found himself in handcuffs up against a cruiser while the police officer patted him down.

“Steve!” he heard suddenly. He tried to turn towards Sam’s shout, but the cop’s hand was in the middle of his back, holding him still with a surprisingly strong grip.

“Ma’am,” he attempted to say, but Sam’s voice was getting closer now.

“Misty, that’s my friend, the one I told you about.”

“Oh. Sorry, Wilson,” said the policewoman gruffly.

Abruptly, Steve’s hands were free and he could move again. Sam was on him in a second, squeezing him close. Steve could feel Sam shaking, or maybe that was him, and all Steve could think for the moment was how good Sam smelled, how he never wanted a breath that didn’t carry his scent.

“Good god, you scared me,” Sam mumbled into his neck. “I heard that gun go off, and I just... you idiot.”

“Have to second that,” said the police officer, frowning at him. “What were you thinking?”

Steve rubbed his wrists. He was starting to feel the adrenaline drain away, leaving him exhausted. “I guess I wasn’t,” he admitted. “I’m sorry.”

Sam kissed him and pulled away, slowly, like he was as reluctant to put distance between them as Steve was. Only when he stepped back did Steve realize that his shirt was damp. He glanced down, alarmed to find faint blood streaks on his front. He was trying to figure out how he’d been hurt — he didn’t _feel_ hurt — when he noticed that the stains matched those on Sam’s shirt.

“Are you—?” he started to ask, but Sam shook his head again.

“I’m fine,” he explained. “And so is the detective.”

“Detective?”

“My partner,” said the police officer. She stuck out a hand. “I’m Detective Knight, and my partner, Detective Cage, is the man who was stabbed.” She turned to Sam. “The man whose life you saved,” she added with a sudden grateful smile.

Sam shrugged, but Steve could see his cheeks darkening somewhat with the praise. “Just helped stabilize him till the real medics got here.”

“Yeah, _just_ ,” Knight repeated dryly. “I’m gonna have to get your statements, both of you. Mind riding along with me to the hospital?”

Steve looked to Sam, who shrugged; it wasn’t like they had much choice. He sent Bucky a quick text as they followed Knight to her car, though, just to let him know they’d be a little late.

 _Not to worry, I’m very good at stalling_ , Bucky replied. _Not to mention guarding the Precious._

Steve stifled a chuckle as he buckled his seatbelt. At least he wasn’t preoccupied by his stage fright anymore.

* * *

In a small room off the ER, Misty listened to Sam and Steve’s accounts of what happened and explained that Cage had been undercover, trying to gain the trust of the woman who stabbed him, a drug dealer and wannabe crime lord who went by the name of Python on the streets.

“I think she honestly wants everyone to call her _Princess_ Python,” Misty said, rolling her eyes. “But that’s just too much, even for Hell’s Kitchen.”

Sam was trying his best to listen, since it wasn’t normal protocol for Misty to tell people stuff like this, but he kept getting distracted. Steve was jittery beside him, his leg bouncing. Sam was right there with him, jazzed up the way he always was right after a call. He’d done all he could do, but he still wished there was more. His fingers felt shaky, itchy with the need to keep working.

Or maybe that was left over from thinking he was going to lose Steve.

He reached over, resting his hand on Steve’s bouncing thigh. Steve went still at once, and all Sam wanted was to get him somewhere quiet, so he could process what had happened. He’d treated the detective’s wound almost on autopilot, because his heart had run down that alley with Steve. And when he’d heard the gunshot—

Like he could hear Sam’s thoughts, Steve covered Sam’s hand with his own and squeezed.

“Is your partner gonna be all right?” Steve asked.

“He’s in good hands,” said Misty. “Dr. Temple runs the best ER I’ve ever seen.”

Sam didn’t miss the way she’d sidestepped the question, and from the slight twist to his mouth, Steve didn’t, either. But they lost the chance to comment on it when Dr. Temple herself knocked on the door and entered with a couple of white button down shirts in a plastic grocery bag.

“These have been in the change room for months,” she announced. “You may as well have them, since it looks like you could use them.”

“Wow, thanks,” said Steve. “That’s very kind of you, Doctor.”

“It’s no trouble,” Dr. Temple replied with a warm smile that didn’t last. She turned to Misty and glared instead. “I thought I told you no more stab wounds. For you or Luke.”

“I know, Claire, I know,” Misty replied, rolling her eyes, but she turned serious again in an instant. “How is he?”

“He’ll be fine. Thanks to this man,” she added, nodding at Sam. “I don’t suppose you’d be up for a transfer? Hell’s Kitchen could use more medics like you.”

Sam smiled and looked down, his cheeks warm with pleased embarrassment. “Thanks, but I think I’m good in Brooklyn.” He patted Steve’s thigh, laughing with the relief of finding it so solid under his hand. “Got everything pretty well set up there.”

Steve smiled at him, then bit his bottom lip like he was nervous. “Speaking of, will you need us much longer? We kinda had—”

“Plans, I know,” Misty finished for him. “Nah, you’re free to go. I’ll even call you a cab, so you can get down to your gallery on time.”

Steve gaped. “How did you—?”

“I’m a detective, remember?” Misty said with a raised eyebrow.

“Huh,” Steve replied.

Misty winked at at Sam — he’d told her where they were going, of course — and escorted them to the door. The cab arrived, and Sam finally got the quiet moment he'd been craving. He rubbed Steve’s thigh and leaned into him.

“I can’t believe you went after that chick,” he murmured, after a long minute of silence. “That was either the bravest or the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Steve winced. “I’m sorry, Sam. I just— it was instinct, I guess.”

“I get that,” Sam said, pulling back. And then, because he was still a little desperate for things to feel normal, he added, “But, if you start feeling an instinct like that more often, I might have to get you a leash.”

“The old ball and chain?” Steve asked. His eyes were more serious than his tone, and Sam knew they were on the same page, that giving each other shit was better than dwelling on what might have happened.

“Something like that,” Sam replied. “I’m just so glad you’re all right,” he sighed, and gave into the urge to kiss Steve, slow and tender, letting his body say what his mind couldn’t right then.

“You can stop necking now, we’re here,” the cab driver announced crabbily. He turned around, and Sam was surprised to recognize him.

“Wade?” said Steve. “What are you doing, working in Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Oh, I’m back by popular demand,” Wade replied, making no sense as usual. “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.”

“Uh....” Steve said, looking blankly at Sam.

Sam shrugged and pulled out his wallet. He paid and thanked the driver, but he wasn’t sure Wade heard any of it; he was blithering on about romantic comedies and Shakespeare, and—

“Really, isn’t it obvious where this is going? I mean, have you read this author’s other works? It’s all about the table linens. By the way, if you’re looking for a color scheme, might I suggest some subtle variations on red and blue. Works well with a lot of pairings.”

He nodded seriously, like he’d just imparted some other worldly wisdom, so Sam thanked him again and climbed out of the car. The cab sped away, leaving him and Steve on the sidewalk.

“Never a dull moment,” he muttered, and Steve nodded.

“Hope you’re okay with that,” he replied.

“You know what, I actually am,” Sam told him with a smile. The alone time was just what he needed to feel settled again, so he took Steve’s hand and swung it between them. “Now, come on, Mr. Artist, let’s get to your gala.”

“Right,” said Steve. He drew a deep breath, puffing out that ridiculous chest that Sam loved to nap on, and squared his already-very-square shoulders.

Sam wasn’t sure what he was expecting when they stepped into the small gallery — he’d been working the weekend that Steve’s art was on display before — but quiet jazz, hors d’oeuvres, and a big crowd wasn’t it.

“Lotta people here,” Steve said under his breath, his grip on Sam’s hand tightening somewhat.

“I guess you’re a big deal,” Sam murmured absently. His attention was divided between the art on the walls and the man in the corner with an expensive suit and neatly trimmed goatee. “Who’s that dude?”

“Dunno,” said Steve. “Maybe—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence because Coulson came up to them, a little out of breath. “Steve, thank God. Are you good to go on in five minutes? The crowd’s a little antsy with Stark here. Fury says that if he leaves, they all leave, so I’m just gonna make the announcement, okay, and you get up on stage, do your thing, and maybe you’ll get a big cheque out of this, okay? Okay.”

He straightened Steve’s tie, clapped him on the shoulders, and then his hands just kind of... lingered.

“Phil?” Steve said uncertainly.

“Sorry, sorry, I just— you’re so solid,” Coulson mumbled. He shook his head like a dog getting out of a pool and spun on his heel and headed for the stage.

“What just happened?” asked Sam. “And did he say Tony Stark is here?”

“That can’t be right. I think he’s nervous,” Steve answered. Sam watched his Adam’s apple bob when he swallowed. “He’s not the only one.”

“You’ll do great,” Sam reassured him. “Just picture everybody in their underwear.”

Steve’s eyes went wide. “I don’t think that’ll help.”

Sam laughed. “Fine. Picture _me_ in my underwear, then.”

“Now we’re talking,” said Steve, low and flirty.

He opened his mouth like he was going to say more, but Phil’s voice came through the speakers then, welcoming everyone to the gallery and inviting the artist himself to come up and say a few words. With one last squeeze of Sam’s hand, Steve went, stepping onto the stage and giving the room a brilliant smile that hid his nerves from everyone who wasn’t Sam.  

As Steve introduced himself and spoke a little about the art on the walls, Sam scanned the crowd. Goatee guy didn’t seem to be listening; he had lowered his pink-tinted glasses and was eyeing the canvases like they were menu items and he couldn’t decide what he wanted to eat. Across the room, a bald man with an eye patch and a wicked leather jacket was sipping champagne. He seemed to be doing the same thing Sam was — checking out the crowd — but he looked much more suspicious about everyone there. Sam decided not to look his way too much, just in case.

He finally located Natasha and Bucky in the back corner standing very close together with their hands entwined. Sam smiled, Nat smiled back, and Bucky waved with his left hand, letting Sam catch a glimpse of his latest tattoo, a black band on his ring finger, broken by a red star on the front. If someone had told Sam two years ago that Natasha would run off to Vegas one weekend and marry a guy who had finger tattoos, Sam wouldn’t have believed it, but here they were.

Everyone around him started clapping suddenly, letting Sam know that Steve had finished his speech. Sam joined the applause a half a beat too late, watched Steve step away from the podium and immediately get mobbed by gala guests. With a smile, Sam gestured to Steve, asking if he wanted a drink, and Steve nodded desperately. Sam decided to get Steve a soda and a glass of champagne for himself, since it was pretty obvious that Steve was going to be making some money tonight.

Natasha and Bucky met him at the bar. “Fashionably late, I see,” she teased. She reached out, straightened the collar of the shirt he’d put on at the hospital. It wasn’t exactly a perfect fit. “Or late, anyway. Not exactly fashionable.”

“What the heck happened to you guys?” Bucky asked, and Sam blew out a breath before he recited the evening’s events.

“So you just straight up saved a guy’s life, and Steve caught a criminal?” said Natasha.

“That about sums it up,” Sam confirmed.

Bucky was shaking his head. “You guys are so perfect for each other. It’s no wonder—”

“Oh, look, Steve’s boss is here,” Natasha exclaimed suddenly, cutting Bucky off. “Don’t you think you should go say hi?”

“Uh,” said Bucky, but Nat was already dragging him away, across the room towards the guy with the eyepatch that Sam had noticed earlier.

He brought the drinks over to Steve — he practically had to elbow three swooning women out of his path — and stayed by his side for the rest of the night. He felt at times like arm candy, but Sam could feel the tension go out of Steve’s body when he rested his palm on his lower back, could see the relief move through him.

Especially when the man with the goatee sauntered over and introduced himself as Tony Goddamn Stark.

“Mr. Rogers— God, that is an unfortunate name, I’m just gonna call you Steve, okay?” he said, shaking Steve’s hand.

“Okay,” Steve started to say, but Tony was already talking again.

“Let’s see here, you’re obviously talented, but you’re new to the art world, I don’t see you at any of the gigs. Your suit’s a mess, that shirt doesn’t even fit right, so I’m thinking, you have some kind of day job, something nice and menial, down and dirty?”

“Sort of,” Steve tried to respond.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll buy every one of these paintings that nobody else takes tonight, on one condition.” Stark’s eyes were sharp as razors over his glasses, and he still hadn’t let go of Steve’s hand. “You take my money, you buy a new suit, and you take some time off from whatever it is you do when you’re not doing this.” He let go, stepped back, and pushed his glasses up again. “I’ll have Pepper call you, take you around to all the big names. You’ll be a star in no time, guaranteed.”

With that, he walked away, leaving Steve looking completely dazed. His tongue swept out to moisten his bottom lip, and he kept blinking.

“Did that just happen?” he asked finally.

Sam felt suddenly giddy. “I think so. I mean, we can’t both be delusional, right?”

Steve just laughed. A moment later, another group of admirers came along, and Sam stayed steady at his side.

* * *

When the crowd had finally dispersed, when there was no art left on the walls, and Steve had a couple of too-big-to-be-true cheques in his wallet, Steve gave Bucky a significant look, and Bucky ushered Natasha and Phil out of the room. They went quietly, but Phil was almost skipping.

“Strange dude,” Sam murmured, watching them with a raised eyebrow.

Steve chuckled. Sam turned back to find that he’d stepped behind the bar, right back where Sam had first seen him, and he grinned. Steve grinned back. He dragged a cloth from somewhere and started wiping the bar down.

“So, Sam,” he said, obviously playing it up a notch or ten. “What’ll it be?”

Sam sank onto a stool, deciding he could play this game, too. “Long Island Iced Tea.”

Steve grimaced. “All out, I’m afraid.”

“Well then, hell with this,” Sam scoffed, making to stand. Steve caught his wrist, laughing.

“Got a nice Merlot,” he suggested, and he pulled two glasses out from under the bar. They weren’t very full, and Steve sloshed them around a little before he set one carefully down in front of Sam. “Cheers.”

They clinked glasses, and Sam took a sip. It was rich and dry, with a smooth tang, just the way Sam pretended not to like it. They drank in silence a moment, but Steve was uneasy, chewing on his bottom lip. Sam was just about to ask him what that was all about when he spoke.  

“Sam,” he began seriously. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. To— well, to ask you, actually.”

“Okay,” Sam said slowly, sipping his wine without taking his eyes off Steve.

“But then, with what happened earlier.... I was scared, Sam,” he finished softly.

Sam reached out, squeezed his hand. “Me too,” he murmured.

Steve drew in a deep breath. “But I want you to know that this has nothing to do with that. I mean, it has to do with it, because it’s an important thing— they’re both important things, really, I know that, but important in different ways. So, I just— I just want you to know that. That I was scared, but I’m not doing this because of that.”

Sam opened his mouth, and then promptly closed it. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating, trying and failing to find a point somewhere in all that babble.

“Huh?” he said finally.

Steve’s cheeks colored, and Sam was pretty sure the wine had nothing to do with it. “Sorry. I guess, what I’m trying to say is... chasing that drug dealer today, it was scary, but I’m not saying this tonight because I’m scared. I’m saying it because it’s true. I love you, Sam.”

Sam smiled. “Love you, too,” he replied.

He was still confused, though. He drank another mouthful of wine. This wasn’t exactly a new declaration between them, so what the hell was Steve—

There was something in his glass that clanked when he drew it back. Sam looked up, caught Steve’s guilty, hopeful look, and stuck his fingers in his glass. 

“Sam,” Steve breathed, when Sam fished out the ring. “What I’m trying to say is—”

“Yes,” Sam told him, shutting him up.

Steve’s face lit up in a grin, and he watched intently while Sam licked the wine from his fingers and slid the ring into place. It’d been years — he’d stopped wearing his wedding band about six months before Riley left — but this one felt different, like it fit in a way the other one hadn’t.

It felt like coming home, and as Steve pulled him up across the bar to kiss him, he barely noticed when the wine glasses fell and shattered on the floor.


End file.
